


Chances You Can Take (Fourth rambling)

by Aednat_the_Fourteenth



Series: Ramblings [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Be curious, Childhood, Education, F/M, Family, Fête des Mousquetaires Challenge, Gen, Love, No characters mentioned, Social Injustice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 02:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10844280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aednat_the_Fourteenth/pseuds/Aednat_the_Fourteenth
Summary: Was there a day when you realized that you were not like your siblings?My entry for February 2017’s “Fête des Mousquetaires” competition. Theme: retrospection.





	Chances You Can Take (Fourth rambling)

They are four siblings, running the streets of Paris.

The two older are both lean and athletic. The first one has almost orange hair that matches the freckles all over one of the most gracious faces you’ll ever see. The second one has a playful smile and many curls that fly into the wind.

The following is tall and brawny, like their mother, but whiny.

The baby of the family is short and very serious, like their father.

They are four siblings who look out for each other. Their parents don’t always know how they keep busy, and it’s for the best, because God, are they reckless! Constantly seeking trouble. They fight with wooden sticks, they play near the tanners district, they throw rocks at stray dogs, they jump into  muddy puddles... In the summer, they even dive in the Seine, and challenge the other children to swim as far as they do.

The two older brothers always win. Not only are they strong, but they are fearless.

 

The four of them love stories. They have been fortunate enough to be raised by educated shopkeepers. Their father was at school at the Jesuits’, and their mother has always liked to read, so tales are often told at home, after dinner, in front of the fireplace. The two older ones prefer adventures. Sometimes, they recreate the battles at night, in the small room when the children share a large bed. Usually, the younger laugh, at the beginning, but quickly  tire of the mess. They rarely complain, though. They don’t want the others to be punished, and they know they will also get drowsy, eventually, and lie down, still giggling and teasing each other, before falling sound asleep.

Once a year, sometimes twice, when the business is going particularly well, they go to the theater. Despite their mother’s love for tragedies, they usually favor comedies and farces, for the sake of the children. The intention is to make them like the letters, not to put them off them. As their father says: “The problem, with us common people, is that we wallow in our misery. Worse: we derive satisfaction from it! You cannot ask for consideration if you don’t respect yourself.”

He is proud, their father. And both their parents teach them to also be. Maybe that explains the actions of the curly-haired child, the day of the incident.

When some brutes strike your younger brother, and keep calling him names while he’s lying on the ground, crying, begging for them to stop, _please, stop, I haven’t done anything wrong, stop, I’m not gonna tell, I promise,_ there are not a thousand ways to respond, are there?

So, blows fly. And hit their targets. A cheekbone, a lip and a chin bleed; an eye is closed shut and even a tooth breaks before the other bullies recover from their surprise and come to their pal’s rescue. But the curly-haired child doesn’t stop. Three stronger louts are not that big a threat when your little brother is in danger.

With his three tormentors focused on the older one, the boy finally manages to escape. And then, just when it’s getting too much to bear, a voice rings:

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Their mother.

The three brutes flee together as one. The curly-haired child spits some blood and starts to shout: “And don’t ever come back, you…”

But their mother yells again:

“Constance!”

And that’s when she realizes that she’s angry… at her. She rearranges her dress, then the auburn locks that have fallen in her eyes when one of the rascals has torn her ribbon off – it’s on the floor, she notices in a quick scan of her surroundings; soaked in the mud – before explaining herself:

“I was just trying to help, _maman_. They were hurting him!”

But the woman shakes her head in disbelief and growls:

“You’re in big trouble, young _lady_.”

xxxx

In retrospect, Constance believes this is the day she realized that she was different from her siblings. She remembers the rebuke, the spanking, and the week she had been grounded (the time it took for her face to be watchable again), but what had hurt the most were the murderous looks her dear little brother had given her for having saved his skin. Apparently, being helped by his sister was more painful than being beaten and insulted by three older boys. He forgave her, eventually. Deep down, she believes he was even grateful. However, things were never the same. Her three brothers, whether on their own volition or following a parental order, stopped telling her about their deeds. They still played together, sometimes, but most of the mornings, she woke up to do her chores and then realized that they had left without her. She didn’t understand. Why was she being punished for having helped a loved one in distress?

So, yes, she does remember very well the first time someone has made her feel like she had to behave differently from her close ones, but she’s not sure when she stopped fighting the idea. She got angry, at the beginning, but, quickly, her childish resilience took over. She had other friends, after all, girls to fool around with, and her parents assured that they had time to play together and share their experiences.

She learned how to cook, how to negotiate the best products at the fairest prices at the market, and how to use up the leftovers. She learned how to mend clothes, how to get rid of the most stubborn stains and how to manage a budget.

She also found out that she should speak only when addressed to, and was taught how to choose her words carefully. She became versed in the art of being discreet and charming, to encourage the men of her life, and to criticize them without challenging their power.

She learned how to be a perfect wife.

She didn’t dislike it.

When her father introduced her to Jacques, she felt lucky. He was a good person. Reasonably wealthy, but not spoiled. Down to earth, but ambitious. A hard worker, who would never take anything for granted, and a talented craftsman. Of course, he lacked imagination, he was timorous, and could sometimes be atrociously patronizing, yet Constance had seen so many of her friends end up with husbands who would despise, belittle or beat them, that she would have felt like a fool to complain. Hell! Jacques wasn't even that much older than her, and reasonably handsome!

And he loved her. He showed her every day, at the beginning. He was gentle, he gave her presents… He shared his understanding of life, and taught her how to run a house efficiently. More than once, he grumbled that her mother should have known better than to encourage her naïve reveries, which Constance believed was extremely unfair. But she sometimes complained about his parents, too, and he was civil enough to let her do so. To some extent.

Over time, there were less small kindnesses, and they fell into a busy routine.

Jacques became more and more severe. He worked so, so hard, with so little results, for all these annoying bourgeois and insufferable nobles, all so entitled to their entitlements. At some point, his frustration took over. But Constance never complained. She knew she could be quite irritating herself, and she didn't let him cross some lines. She was able to soothe him when he felt really down, and, as much as he kept deploring the silliest aspects of her personality, he was thankful.

They balanced each other pretty well. Everybody could see it. He grounded her, she gave him courage. She was the one to suggest expanding the shop, and he found the way to do so while minimizing the risks. When profit increased, it felt like team work was rewarded.

Even now, the memory appeases her. It **is** an accomplishment. She is proud to be a good wife, although she was never capable of giving Jacques a child.

And, if she is completely honest with herself, she has liked the position her marriage provides her.

But then, D’Artagnan came into her existence, and it was as if this curly-haired child who didn’t realize that she was a girl and thought she could be brave, adventurous and true to her principles, was brought back to life.

They have fought together, they have loved each other and never once has he made her feel like she was different.

_“If I left my husband, my family would cut me off. And my friends would cross the street to avoid me. I’d be nothing more than your whore.”_

The curly-haired child believed that she could become what she was destined for.

_“Your children would be bastards, and if you died in battle, what then? I’d get nothing. Not even a soldier’s pension. I’d die on the streets, a beggar or prostitute.”_

But Constance, had to fight the idea.

She is lucky.

She doesn’t hate her life.

Jacques is a good person.

They do fine things together.

Things she has been raised for.

Things she had given up so much to be able to find some gratification in them.

_“I’m a woman, D’Artagnan. A woman in a world built for men. If I lost you, I’d lose everything. I can’t take that chance.”_

_“You know, I’ve known you as many things, Constance. But never as a coward.”_

The words stung. But, quickly, the pain had been replaced by anger. How had he dared speak of her like that? He is a man. He has no idea! He can choose to be anything he wishes to be. The only thing he has to fear is death. A death he challenges every day because he wants to, because he likes that, and because no one has ever wanted him to be literate and then told him that he shouldn’t fight for what he believes in. No one has prevented him to learn how to do so. No one has asked him to display a proud demeanor but to look away when another human being was bullied in front of him. No one has tamed him into a casualty. No one has ganged together to force him to depend on someone else in every aspect of his life.

_“I know what you want. It’s not a boring life and a joyless marriage. You need love and adventure, and you know I can give you both.”_

Constance sighs. She's aware that he hasn’t meant to insult her. He was hurt. After all that had happened, he felt reasonably betrayed.

And, even in his anger, his arguments have been about her.

Never, since the day she understood she was different from her siblings, has anyone ever made a decision in consideration of her needs.

She still cannot resolve to call herself a coward because she fears she'll end up dying in the streets, along with the children she would have been selfish enough to embroil in her madness. But maybe she has been one before.

She **is** lucky. Many women would kill to have what she has. But that doesn’t make it right.

Perhaps D’Artagnan is not the one she has betrayed.

She is **more** than lucky, she mentally amends. After years of compromise, she has been offered a second chance.

A chance to give a little curly-haired girl what she deserves.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> \- Maybe it was because I know a bit about women’s condition in seventeenth century France (and especially under Richelieu), but I was horrified when D’Artagnan called Constance a coward because she feared what would happen to her and their children if he died. I mean, we viewers know that he is bullet-proof, but she doesn’t! :D I wish there had been another discussion around this matter, so this was my modest attempt at rectifying that :)  
> \- Originally published on FFnet.  
> \- A big, BIG thank to Kevin for the proofreading!


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